In the Blood
by atenala
Summary: A covert operator loses his employer, but finds another.


In The Blood - Chapter One

"-_Compromised!_"

That one word chilled Cameron Bryson to the core. It was about the worst thing that could come over the radio.

Cameron was given the job by his supervisor, Col. Jackson: a recon in the jungles of Columbia. He knew better than ask about the legality of the mission, or who authorized it. As usual, he picked his command, all Airborne Rangers, all single, all sneaky bastards. He supervised the team's training, first at a base in the Appalachians, and later at a secret CIA facility in Nicaragua.

They were to surveil local drug operations for two months, relaying reports at predetermined intervals which were seldom shorter than 36 hours. It was a clandestine operation, and as far as Cameron knew, nobody in Columbia, rebel or government, was supposed to know about it. They took great pains to keep it that way. The mountain base camp was practically invisible from the air, and far enough from trails, drug factories and villages to minimize the risk of discovery by patrols.

The mission went well for the first month. Intelligence on factory locations, strength and movements of workers and guards, and the pickup times was gathered and relayed to Washington. What the Company planned to do with the information wasn't his concern.

Then, a week ago, things began to get tense. The weekly supply plane, necessary to keep the operation going, failed to show. Two days later, the advance listening post learned that a plane had been shot down by rebels, and the coded messages and boxes of MREs and medical supplies made the local drug lords very suspicious. In the next week, a rebel battalion moved into the team's area of operations. Apparently their leader was more interested in the power offered by drug money than by Marxist dogma. The rebel patrols added an unwelcome risk to the already tricky operation. While Cameron had made tactical adjustments to compensate for the change, he hadn't seriously considered pulling out early. A static-broken radio message changed everything.

"I repeat, we have been compromised!" The sharp crack of gunfire punctuated the corporal's message. The rattle of M-16 fire, countered by the slower popping of Kalishnikovs, drowned out the scout's next words. He heard a sudden cry and the connection was broken. Everyone in the makeshift tend sat motionless. The receiver crackled again, intermittently, as another couple of gunshots made the speaker buzz and crack. Cameron heard a babble that sounded like Spanish but that was too faint to make out. Then came a shrill and clearly audible cry, "_Grenada!_" The connection was severed, abruptly and permanently. For several moments, the only sound was the rain on the canvas tent roof.

"Mr. Moore?" Cameron realized the sergeant had spoken to him, using the code name the men knew him by. He took a breath to steady himself. "Sgt. Reems, recall the ridge post. Rig the trail if they can." The NCO nodded and switched the frequency. "Mouse, Mouse, this is Nest. Pack up and leave the mat out. I say again, pack up and leave the mat out. Over." Static crackled, and a quiet voice hissed, "Wilco. Mouse out."

_Shitshitshit. _Cameron looked at his watch. Routine check-in wouldn't be for another hour and a half. They'd all be dead or gone by then. Better make it gone. He stuffed the logbook in his shirt. "Reems, start packing up. Keep the radio going. Nichols, break out the chopper. We have twenty minutes, so finish in fifteen."

Thirteen minutes later, Cameron was setting the thermite charge atop the pit filled with extra radio equipment, clothes, maps, ammo and other unnecessary but incriminating evidence, when he heard an explosion on the ridge above them. Someone had tripped a claymore at the sentry post. Not even a naked sprinter could get from the advance listening post to the ridge in a quarter of an hour, which meant that another patrol was in the vicinity. If there was one, there might be a handful. They may already be under surveillance now. As if in answer to the thought, he glimpsed a figure through the thick growth. His carbine went up, but dropped again when the figure reappeared – a hulking American, green from boonie hat to boots, running with a speed belaying his bulk. A second figure, similarly dressed, burst from the dense jungle behind him. A hundred yards away, the chopper, its camouflage netting pulled away, was already whining to life. The blades were turning in slow arcs, gathering speed too slowly for his liking. The two advance scouts were kneeling before the chopper, facing the way they had come. Two other soldiers were on the other side, watching for a last minute attack.

The helicopter's whine grew stronger, and the blades began their thumping whirr. It was time. Cameron tripped the detonator timer and ran to the chopper. As he passed, the soldiers followed, their eyes continuing their search of the surrounding jungle. Cameron took a seat in the Blackhawk and plugged his headset in to the radio. "Everybody's on, let's go!" he barked. In response, the blades' whirr changed to a roar, flattening the clearing's grass in a blast of air. The bird slowly rose, then tilted and moved forward down the valley. They were gathering speed when they heard the unmistakable _ping_ of small-arms rounds hitting the chopper. Corporal Wyatt leaned out and lay down suppression fire with his M-16. A few moments later, they were out of range of the rebel patrol.

As the chopper lurched and zigged just above treetop level, Cameron cursed their luck. The mission had been meticulously laid out, the soldiers were the best of the best, and bad luck brought the whole thing crashing down. He looked at the men around him - some looking stoic and others dejected -– and saw the empty space on the bench. Two men almost certainly dead. Mr. Moore pushed the feelings of failure out of his mind. They weren't in friendly country yet, and he still had to find a way to get these men home.

A rain much colder than the jungle storm fell in Washington DC. Few people were on the street, and none took notice of the black limousine which eased to a stop in the Washington Memorial parking area. A moment later, a tall man stepped out of the shadows and stood beside the vehicle. He wore a worn black leather jacket, but seemed otherwise unconcerned about the rain which drenched his head, jeans and exposed t-shirt. The car's door opened, and he slipped inside.

The man beside him looked to be in his mid thirties, with just enough gray in his hair to make him look dignified. "Mr. Mortimer," he said, nodding slightly.

"Mr. Dalton," the new arrival answered coolly in a heavy English accent. "You said you had something for me."

Dalton handed Mortimer a folder. "I think this is just the man you're looking for, Mr. Mortimer. Mr. Moore, aka Cameron Bryson, was a member of the U.S. Army Rangers. He later transferred to the 7th Special Forces Group. His performance drew the attention of someone in the CIA, who engineered his "retirement" from the military. He's been running covert operations in South and Central America for several years now.

"Bryson's career just took a turn for the worse, though. His last mission, a highly illegal operation in Columbia, failed disastrously. Some evidence was left behind, and the Colombians have been tantalizing the media with rumors of American troops in their country. Moore's patron is out of favor and possibly out of a job. This leaves Mr. Moore as a potential free agent."

"Moore has extensive recon and combat training and experience. His specialty is escape and evasion; he slips past his opponents like a ghost and is known for being. . . innovative in solving problems. He could probably get past an Archon." Dalton smiled slightly. His visitor showed no reaction to the jab, so he continued. "In addition, I think his psychological profile and background fit your requirements."

The tall man looked through the file in silence. Finally, he looked up at Dalton. "I think he'll do. Good evening." He reached for the door.

Mr. Dalton held up his hand. "Mr. Morgan, ah, will overlook. . .?"

Mortimer spoke without altering his deadpan expression. "Art Morgan is very old indeed. His memory isn't what it used to be."

Dalton smiled. "It's been good doing business with you, Mr. Mortimer."


End file.
